“Katy Cutler thinks what?”
The head of hotel security for the Grange Hotel was Ed Bostrom, retired Glendale cop. Furlong found him in his inner sanctum of security camera monitors and a console of beeping electronics in a sweaty room behind the registration desk. Crew cut. Square head. Girth like salad wasn’t a thing.
“Same case, same questions,” said Furlong.
“So you want a guided tour?”
“I gather one needs an escort, so, yes.”
Bostrom made a show out of studying the watch on his hairy wrist. “I guess I can spare eight minutes, and that includes riding the world’s slowest elevator.” He was right about that — the lethargic lift worked as if it were underpaid and underappreciated.
“This elevator?” said Furlong.
“Three shafts, three elevators,” said Bostrom. “But he likely waited to be on this one — closest to the security camera in the hall on the penthouse level. Fourteenth floor. One step out and he whacks the camera with a heavy club or something and it spins around enough to give us a good steady shot of the wallpaper.”
“And nothing useful from the brief second he steps out of the elevator.”
“A hoodie and a neck gaiter took care of that,” said Bostrom. “There’s a nose you can see for point-three seconds in the video and they tried some facial recognition software, but really? One nose?”
“Nobody got on or off with him?”
“If they did, they don’t remember. He can pull the gaiter up and the hoodie over at the last stop too, of course.”
“Wasn’t it unusual for Duncan to be in his hotel? At night?”
“No,” said Bostrom. “His night of carousing had not yet begun.”
“And man in hoodie is never seen again.”
“No.”
The Grange Hotel, a dark monolith on the east side of Colorado Boulevard, was built as a high-end joint. Rooms starting at $350. Suites starting at $850. Still, the space around the elevators was bland and generic.
Many of the newspaper stories had come with maps. And dotted lines. Elevator. Room. Stairs. Dumpster where head was found — three blocks away.
Furlong remained a step behind Bostrom. While Furlong had trimmed down from his top weight during the go-go foodie days at the newspaper, it was rare to feel outsized. Despite the plush hall carpeting, Bostrom plodded with a certain thunder.
“One bone saw?” said Furlong. “Not much to carry. Or hide.”
“And something for a garrote,” said Bostrom. “Coroner thinks garrote and then he cut right on that same line. Of course, the sawing eliminated evidence of the garrote. You know. Win-win, I suppose.”
“Serious hatred,” said Furlong.
Bostrom said nothing.
Unlocking the door to Duncan’s suite, room 1400, required two of Bostrom’s keys. The room was a sea of white. A wall of windows took in the panorama of the Colorado Front Range, all coated with a fresh blanket of white snow. At the forefront, Glendale looked like it had been dunked in crème anglaise.
“Jesus,” said Furlong.
“Twelve-fifty a night,” said Bostrom. “Cutler has talked about a remodel — turning this into three rooms or gutting it and putting in another restaurant.”
The horror...
“She wanted to call this one Tin. Tin and Tang.” Bostrom grimaced. “Get it?”
“Unfortunately.” Furlong took in the sunken living room, a kitchen worthy of a modest mansion, and doors that opened to three separate bedrooms. “New?”
“New everything.” Bostrom was making a circuit of the interior, as if to make sure nobody was hiding. “There was no passing the stains off as abstract designs.” He stopped at the sound of muffled voices outside the door. “Jesus H.”
Furlong shrugged a question.
Bostrom pulled the door open with a furious yank. In the hall, framed by the doorway, stood a small Asian woman wearing a giant set of black headphones. She held a thick fuzzy stick. The stick was pointed up at the mouth of a tallish slender man who, based on his pale pallor and nonfashion of chocolate corduroys and olive sweater, looked like he spent most of his time in a dark basement.
“Who the hell are you?” said Bostrom.
The Asian woman beamed. “You’re Ed Bostrom — hi,” she said. “Amy Ito with ‘Criming America.’”
Furlong winced at the irresponsible verbification.
“The podcast?” said Ito. She shifted the microphone around so it practically tickled Bostrom’s chin. “We tried to book an interview with you...”
Basement Boy looked wide-eyed, a bit terrified.
“Turn that fucking thing off,” said Bostrom.
“I was interviewing Tim McAvoy here about his theory that the murder of Billy Duncan was a conspiracy,” explained Ito. “That there had to be several people involved. Given, you know, all the things that had to go right to pull off such a messy murder, without someone seeing something. Up here.”
“Get the fuck out—”
“We have probability experts who have analyzed the likelihood of a single individual being able to execute all the steps needed, and this is an individual who says—”
“If you don’t head right back down to the elevators, I’m going to put my hands on both of you—”
“He said he saw one of them carrying a duffel bag and it appeared to be wet. Dripping.”
Furlong smiled to himself. All the true crime podcasts had trained a national army of amateur murder investigators. On the one hand, it was a wonder that any crime went unsolved. On the other, the mushrooming breed of pseudo news promoted the idea that with every story there could be a cover-up, an alternate version of reality, or a secret cabal behind the scenes. In this world of dueling microphones, where every opinion was given equal weight, claims were treated like facts. Rumors were crossbred with gossip. Innuendo mated with supposition and produced an illegitimate baby of flapdoodle that only needed a few believers to keep it well fed and nourished until it could stand on its own two feet. And never die.
“And you’re only coming forward now?” said Furlong to McAvoy.
“Well — I saw the article online about ‘Criming America’ recreating the whole investigation and—”
“And you thought you’d make some shit up to get famous.” Bostrom grabbed the top of Ito’s long gray sword of fake fourth estate. He squeezed the tip like a sponge. Ito’s mouth dropped open in shock. Bostrom put his other hand on the bottom of the shaft and yanked. The microphone cord came free from the recorder that was strapped to Ito’s chest like an explosive device.
“You will pay for any damages,” said Ito.
Bostrom bent the microphone with two fists. “And you’ll pay the fine for trespassing when I haul your nosy ass to court for coming up here where you fucking don’t belong.”
Outside, after escorting the still-complaining Ito to her Subaru, Bostrom lit a cigarette.
“She probably paid that shifty kid a few hundred bucks to make some shit up.”
“The case of the dripping duffel,” said Furlong, playing along.
One thing Furlong knew was to challenge every assumption, to come at it like a chef testing every ingredient, right down to the quality of the peppercorns. He treated himself to a roasted chicken banh mi at a hideaway joint on East Alameda. This was Furlong’s third visit — a month between stops to verify consistent quality over time — and the Timothy Powers side of his brain started to stir at the first bite of the delectable sandwich. But something was off. The tender chunks of meat were slathered with a garlic sauce that nicely complemented the crunchy crisp cucumber and fresh blast of cilantro. Yet the pickled carrots and daikon, what should be the soulful center of flavor for each bite, was humdrum. There was no kick. No sparkle.